This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. Home!— which I never hoped to see again. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader.
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